


A Joke is a Very Serious Thing

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Spoilerish for S2, Very very mild mentions of Sterek and Stydia, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:03:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And that's why Stiles rolls his eyes, because alive or dead he isn't taking any of this sourwolf's bullshit.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Joke is a Very Serious Thing

**Author's Note:**

> So, we know that Stiles is getting beat up on the Argent's rug in the upcoming season finale--this is basically an idea I had about how the season could end. I don't think this will _actually_ happen, but I think it'd be really really interesting if, after the last sentence in this fic, we were left to wait for season three.
> 
> So, yeah, think of it that way. This will also probably just be a one shot, so uh, don't expect anything else. Also, take a stab at where the title comes from.
> 
> (... Enjoy...?)

Stiles coughs, and shrinks into a tighter ball at the sound of his rough, destroyed, raw throat. He’s been screaming for what feels like years. He’s bruised and bloody and everything hurts. Gerard had no mercy to spare as he beat Stiles into a proverbial pulp, claiming that it was all his fault, all Stiles’ fault, he ruined everything. Stiles tries to breath deeply, but the action sends his throat convulsing in pain. He whimpers pitifully. He has no idea what part of Gerard’s plan he fucked up, but he feels a small bubble of pride for finally being able to help—even if it’s going to cost him his life.

They’ve locked him in a cage they apparently keep in their basement  _for fun_ , or something equally terrifying. Stiles stares at the edge of the lock on the door of the cage, and hisses as he tries to move. Even if his fingers weren’t broken and even if his eyes weren’t swollen up from tears and pain, he probably wouldn’t have been able to mess with the lock. He sighs and falls slowly to the side, curling into a ball and cupping his stomach. He feels warm blood on his fingers, and it’s starting to get sticky. His mouth is thick with the metallic taste and his face sort of sticks to the cold floor of the cage from the blood on him.

Stiles sighs through his nose, and it hurts a little less than actually exhaling.

Stiles isn’t sure what happened, exactly. He remembers scoring that last goal and he remembers Finstock shouting “we did it!? We won!” but after that, after the field collapsed into darkness, he doesn’t remember much else. He remembers fingers digging into his skin, and he knows he couldn’t see, and when he  _could_  see again, he was being loomed over by Gerard Argent. He looked to his side and made a crack about the awful rug, and suddenly Chris Argent was there to kick him in the side with a rueful remark about Victoria having picked it out.

After that it was everything the movies had made getting kidnapped out to be—painful, gory, full of Stiles pleading for his life and Gerard yelling at him. Stiles shudders again, and realizes his ears are still ringing. He has no idea how long they threw him around for, and as he relaxes into a shivering mess of resigned pain, Stiles starts to make a mental checklist of all his injuries.

Fingers broken, knuckles bleeding. His ears are ringing and feel red, and he predicts further problems unable to be self-diagnosed. He thinks one of his kneecaps was shattered, as well as a broken ankle from getting his leg caught in a door—be it a car door, an Argent door, or the cage door, Stiles couldn’t remember. Which lead him to some acute memory loss, probably from the concussion he has, which means he can’t sleep, can’t let himself fall asleep no matter how tempting it seems. He shifts and winces because he knows was bruised ribs feel like, and figures that since what he feels seems like bruised ribs multiplied by a million means he’s got numerous _broken_  ribs.

Black eyes, fat lip, cuts on his head and various other parts of his body.

Broken nose, he thinks for a moment then changes his mind, because they were especially kind to his face if nothing else.

Stiles forces himself to sit up and finds a stab wound in the side of his leg that Stiles is pretty sure was courtesy of Chris Argent. He presses the finger that hurts the least against the open wound, presses the cloth of his uniform shorts to the gash to try and stem the bleeding.

Then, he laughs.

He presses his hear against the uneven bars of the cage and he laughs loudly and lonely in the silence of the basement. He closes his sore eyes and feels a new wave of tears come down his face as he just  _laughs_.

“You have a terrible sense of humor.” A familiar voice says to him.

Stiles opens one eye as a few loose chuckles find their way somewhere else. “So do you.” He croaks before erupting in coughs again.

Derek stands, arms limp at his sides, just at the door of the cage. Stiles tilts his head because it hurts less to let it hang that try and sit up straight. He flinches when Derek rips off the lock.

“They’re going to hear you.”

“They’re dead.”

Stiles lifts an eyebrow.

“Gerard is dead.” Derek amends, wrenching open the door but not moving inside the cage.

“Good, awesome,” Stiles says, licking his lips even though his body heaves at the taste of blood. “I’m gonna die.” Stiles says matter of factly. “There’s no way I’m not.” His eyes blink unevenly, and he’s almost positive that Derek looks concerned. “I’m just the stupid human. The kid who runs around with werewolves because he wants to help, wants to not be an outcast for once.” Stiles’ gaze drops from Derek to the floor. His voice becomes stronger, but it’s only because he’s fighting through the pain. “Sometimes I think I should’ve taken the bite, before.. from Peter.”

Derek’s eyes unmistakably narrow.

“Maybe it would’ve been better.” Stiles says, not really talking  _to_  Derek. “Maybe it would’ve helped. If I was as strong as you guys, as fast and as keen.” He shrugs but it’s more of a flop. “Or maybe not. Maybe I’d still be here. I probably would’ve been a shitty werewolf.” Stiles laughs again and he can feel himself sinking sideways to lie down.

Derek steps into the cage, finally. “You’re better human.”

“See? I knew it. I’d’ve been a shit wolf.”

Derek shakes his head but Stiles doesn’t see it. Stiles’ eyes are drifting shut. “No, that’s not it. You’re—you’re an amazing human.”

Stiles makes a soft noise, a slightly distressed noise. “You have really really shitty timing, dude.” Stiles opens one eye again, barely. “You decide that as I _die_  is a good time to tell me that you don’t think I’m completely worthless?” He laughs and it’s so very bitter. “Fuck you.”

Stiles smiles at Derek then, teeth red with his own blood and mouth swollen and harsh. Derek walks deeper into the admittedly small cage, and drops to his knees in front of Stiles. Just as Stiles starts to fall again, Derek holds him in a sitting position. “You aren’t going to die, Stiles.” But even Derek doesn’t sound so sure of himself.

And that’s why Stiles rolls his eyes, because alive or dead he isn’t taking any of this sourwolf’s bullshit. “Right, totally, I’m just gonna survive numerous broken bones and bleeding out in some psycho family’s basement. I’m  _totally_ going to live.” Stiles glares to one side, avoiding Derek’s eyes. “The only way I’d even survive this would be if I was a  _werewolf_ , you jackass. Not all of us are fucking  _magical_.” He spits out the words with all the venom he’s been withholding since this thing began. “It’s so unfair that  _Scott_  got the bite. Scott has everything—Scott is cute, Scott’s endearing. Scott may not be a genius but he’s genuine and everything is just so  _easy_  for him, so fucking simple for little Scott McCall.

“But not for Stiles, no. Not Stiles who didn’t ask for the ADHD or the bone weakness, or for his mom to die and his dad to drown himself in alcohol. Stiles didn’t’  _ask_  to be a terrible son and to fall for  _two_  people who would _never_  give him the time of day. Stiles didn’t ask for the worst best friend ever. Stiles doesn’t ask for anything but wants everything  _so much_.”

He’s crying now, openly and angrily, and he’s still spitting the words at Derek.

Derek stares at him, and Stiles whimpers in his chest. “You know what you should do?” Stiles begins again softly, because he can’t keep yelling, it hurts too much. “You know.” Stiles says, because Derek has to know. Stiles closes his eyes, and tries to purse his lips—because if he’s going to die he at least wants  _one_  of the people he’s fallen in love with to show him he wasn’t completely worthless.

Derek nods, but Stiles’ closed eyes don’t catch it. Derek murmurs under his breath, “yeah, I know.” And then he’s leaning in, bypassing Stiles’ lips. But Stiles can’t bring himself to open his eyes, can’t bring himself to be angry that he isn’t getting the kiss he’s been dreaming about for months now. He simply melts into the bars of the cage and resigns himself to death, even as he feels hot breath on his neck, and even as Derek’s growl seems to rock the whole foundation of the house.

The last thing Stiles feels is a burning pain erupting from the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Then, everything goes black  _again_.


End file.
